Tag Archives: dogs

Join me as I accept my fate people. I am 3- 5 days out from a rip-roaring stomach virus incident. MAX.

How do I know this, you ask?

Because Monday afternoon, as I loaded Jr into his car seat after school he looked extra pooped out… he yawned a GINORMOUS yawn, and informed me his tummy hurt “all day.”

Two hours later I was in the thick of the battle zone of a tiny person’s barf, and fever, and lethargy, and all that is parenting a child with a stomach virus.

I had sent up the flares, battened down the hatches, busted out the Lysol and pedialyte and readied him and I for the coming darkness, and the long, LONG night it would bring.

I feel it is prudent to mention, at this juncture, that my only back up going into all of this was Binky the Wonder dog…. The Mr departed that morning on one of his VERY infrequent business trips, and my parents were deep in the heart of Texas with vague plans to return sometime midweek.

To be honest having The Mr out of the way was a blessing – at the slightest hint of sickness in the house, he drops into some sort of pre-emptive man-cold mode, wherein he spends copious amounts of time panicking about catching the illness and determines he should just start behaving as if it has already overtaken him. Not needed or welcome when I have an active barfer in the casa.

As for Binky? Well… he is good company, but he won’t crap in the yard which leaves me wheeling the tiny barfing human around the neighborhood bike paths in a wagon while begging him to “barf in the bag if you have to barf, buddy.” So yeah.

It was a typical stomach bug – quick and dirty, affording me many “opportunities” to do LOTS of loads of laundry at inopportune times.

As an unintended bonus, when The Mr’s parents arrive this weekend for their annual visit for Jr’s birthday, they will find a house that has been disinfected to the point that you could probably perform surgery on any surface of your choosing. There is not one damn thing I haven’t scrubbed, laundered, sprayed, or otherwise decontaminated at this point.

Jr’s recovery set in as quickly as the illness had – and by Tuesday afternoon he was climbing the walls and jamming along to “Sing” -which I had rented in an attempt to keep him occupied during a conference call. ( A plan that backfired when our internet and cable went down for a few hours in the middle of the day because the universe believes that I work best with a “challenge” evidently.)

But here’s the thing, and “primary parents” tell me if you don’t feel me here: I KNOW that shit is coming for me….

You can drink all the grape juice and diffuse all the frigging essential oils and partake in all the shameless bargaining prayer (No? Just me?) that you want to when these things hit your kids…

But you are UP. IN. IT.

You cannot tell me that your chances of ending up infected with that funk are not EXTRA HIGH when you are elbows deep in “the bucket” trying to clean it out from the last use when your kid walks up and yaks into it again (usually with the damn toilet RIGHT NEXT TO WHERE YOU ARE STANDING, WHY GOD WHY!?) Or when said adorable germ carrier snuggles down in bed for story time, then unleashes a solid minute long combo of sneezing/dry heaving/WTF else is that noise even IN YOUR FACE before falling dead asleep while you try to hold your breath and run out to create a Lysol smoke screen to kill that shit.

There is not enough Purell on the PLANET, friends. It’s a damn crap shoot at that point… it is cosmic forces…

I am in “the window.”

That period of days after the virus has departed your child where you wait to see if you too, will drop.

Where anything you eat has that moment of “will this burn coming back up if tonight is the night?” fear every time you make a meal selection.

Where hoping that if you choke on your water during that video conference, it won’t lead to a power barf into your brand new super cute home office trashcan while your coworkers watch.

Nothing can help me now, people…. Only time will tell my fate.

(How many of you reached for the Lysol just reading this? I know I would.)

Jr’s newest meal time battle cry has become “I don’t like that anymore.”

And people, let me tell you right now – mama ain’t down with it one damn bit.

After Jr tried to declare that carrots and broccoli (our last two approved true veggies) were now on his “do not eat list,” I went so far as to implement a “if you liked it when you were 3, you can’t unlike it now!” (Sorry, dude, but if 3 year old you would easily have eaten it, 5 year old you has to eat it too. Because hashtag momlogic.)

Even with my MOTY rule in place, dinner time is substantially more hellish eventful than it used to be.

Case in point, last night’s dinner… or as I immediately took to calling it “The Corn Dog Shit Show.”

I gave Jr a prompt Heisman pose on his attempt to decide that he no longer liked the Morning Star Farms Corn Dogs that he loved as a 4 year old – because evidently vegan junk food is the hill that this mama decided was worth dying on. Go figure.

Anyway, it worked and the kid decided that they were not only cleared for serving again, but actually his new-again favorite thing ever. So for dinner last night when I offered a Corn dog instead of the low carb Cheeseburger casserole thingy that The Mr. and I were having, his agreement was a level 2000 on a scale of 1-10.

Perfect, awesome, fantastic. 1 corndog, some grapes, and a yogurt tube (Simply Yo-plait ONLY, as he has decided that the Horizons tubes no longer meet his refined tastes,) coming up.

Except I wasn’t watching…. And if you overcook a vegan corndog, it blows up.

:::pause to de-corndog microwave:::

Round two is a success, and after a play session with the neighbor kid and a bike ride with dad, he was HUNGRY!

A corndog requires a 5-7 minute cooling time, which can be sped up by sticking the cooked dog back into the freezer. Skip this step and Jr’s delicious dinner becomes a molten mass of meat substitute lying in wait to scorch the taste buds off my offspring’s tender tongue.

All steps accomplished and we all sit down to din.

A third of the way through said perfectly cooled corndog, Jr decides to attempt to remove it from the stick, and half a blink later, it is on the floor, Potter has promptly wolfed it down, and Jr is has that pre-tantrum quiver in his lip.

RED ALERT!!!

I distract him with the yogurt tube and launch into emergency corndog prep procedure, cooking for 10 seconds, checking the temp, and going again – so as to produce a replacement that will be cool enough to eat PDQ, but not still a veggie-product popsicle in the center.

Just as the last grape goes into Jr’s mouth, I sidle up beside him and hold out my microwaved creation, at the perfect temperature for instant ingestion. Mom achievement unlocked.

The pride I took in this victory was far greater than any I ever felt in a kitchen – even when I made perfect puff pastry from scratch to ace my dreaded baking exam in culinary school.

We also had a quick lesson in pointing our corndog DOWN toward the plate if we are shoving it off of the stick, instead of pointing it up and firing it off of the stick like a cornbread-wrapped pop-bottle rocket.

One mealtime battle fought and won…. One food saved from 5 year old snubbery. (Is that a word? I am making it one. I am the MF-ing corndog god… I can do that.)

This little ball of flufftastic perfection is my firstborn baby boy. We had long nights of not much sleep together during those 1st weeks of being a family, and eventually I figured out how to best care for him. Just like any other new baby.
I have beamed with pride at his doggy accomplishments, celebrated big milestones in his life, worried and prayed through some scary sicknesses with him (hello extra gray hairs,) and I knew from the first time I saw him that he had reshaped my heart.

It was more than that. He revealed to me the true Secret of a Mother’s Heart: it can expand indefinitely. There is always more room, always more love.

I am never afraid to give 100% of my love -to him, to his spunky almost-kindergartener brother (time flies,) to my family and friends, and to those in the world who need to feel love and compassion.

I understand now, how my own mother’s love grew the strongest and shined the brightest on me when I was at my worst. (God bless you, Maude)

Because a Mother’s Heart renews and replenishes and strengthens and gives.

Happy Mothers’ Day to all the mommas out there- you are all beautiful, amazing, pefectly-imperfect gifts to your families and friends and communities.
I raise my mimosa to each and every one of you!

3 years ago this week, in a blaze of solo packing glory, I packed up our condo like a crazy person when it was suddenly, FINALLY confirmed that the sale would actually go through (don’t ask, there are seriously some things that even my blabber-mouth self will never be able to speak of,) and prepared to turn the keys over to the next owner of my beloved Treehouse.

I spent my last night there alone – Binky-the -wonder-dog having been carted off to my parents’ house, along with Jr in an effort to prevent his particular kind of packing “help,” (pulling everything out of boxes I had just filled whenever I turned away for a half a second;) and The Mr. traveling for business.

It was good that there were no witnesses to that particular brand of emoting – I wandered from room to room with a box of tissues in one hand and a bottle glass of Vhino Verde in the other; delivering long-winded, tear-gargling monologues about all of the fabulous memories each space held for me. There were several instances involving me hugging appliances and doorways, and a declaration of love for the giant patio that was so garbled by sobs and snot that I think I traumatized the next door neighbor’s cat permanently.

It was hours and hours of the textbook example by which to measure all other examples of “ugly cry.”

Last Sunday, the 25th, was the actual anniversary of that shameless emotional evening, and I was feeling particularly sorry for myself thinking back on it, and on the obvious and faultless wonder of The Treehouse and our fabulous perfect life there. Yep – time hadn’t clouded my memories of that At All.

At 3:00 in the morning Binky woke me from my peaceful, urban-dream-filled slumber. He was pacing and panicking and having a furry meltdown, scratching at the back door. One eye cracked open as I came downstairs, I popped on the back light expecting to see the dreaded Mega Coon, or our neighbor’s cat (equally menacing and WAY more carnivorous than even Mega Coon.) Nothing was there and my fuzzy first born was LOSING HIS MIND trying to get outside, so I opened the door and out he ran.

Turns out the poor guy had the poo. Like really. Like whoa.

As I watched him, um, dealing with his issue, all over the back yard, I was struck by the memories of a few nights in the city that were very different from that nostalgia and wine soaked last one in our old home. Memories of past tummy troubles with Binky, of him and me pacing up and down 7th avenue at horrifically early hours of very dark mornings, as he was coping with the aftermath of some mystery something he had snacked down on an earlier walk. Meanwhile, I was glancing back and forth, nervously aiming my pepper spray and a bag full of dog poo at any noise I perceived on the deserted streets – trying to throw my best crazy-don’t-screw-with-me eyes at the occasional teetering soul who dared pass too close headed home from some booty-call or night cap.

I did not miss that. I did not miss that one damn bit, and I don’t think my sick, miserable doggie missed going up and down in the elevator (that seemed to take FOREVER to come, on those nights in particular,) or trying to work out his issues going back and forth on one narrow patch of grass under a street light, with me standing right on top of him acting like a freakjob. (I know my weaknesses. Solo night time streets pretty much ANYWHERE is one of them.)

In and out went poor Binky for the next 3 hours, from his cozy home directly into his private, large back yard where he could do his doggie business as much as he needed while mom stayed on the sofa inside, sans pepper-spray and nutty faux-ninja-like reactions.

Around the time the sun was coming up, he came in for the last time and laid down overlooking his yard to rest.

I am not confirming or denying anything – but I may have even given that doorway a little hug.

Wagon extracted, I was getting Jr settled in when The Mr went inside to get the dog.

“He came out with you, honey.”

“No he didn’t.”

At this point I wheel Jr to the driveway and start calling for Potter. The Hub goes in the door while stating over his shoulder, “don’t go out there and call for him, because he is inside.”

(Yeah, no. And now I am panicking, because my beloved Binkeh Baby Doggie is not coming to me and I cannot see his black fluffy perfection anywhere.)

Off I ran, around the outer circle of our little ‘hood, then around the inner one surrounding the pocket park, Jr rumbling along behind me in the wagon. He pointed out that we were bypassing the playground, but at the same time kept saying “Pot-pot run way Mommy? When we find Pot-Pot?”

At this point I didn’t know the answer to that question, and I am sure I had the desperation of a junkie looking for a fix in my eyes as I passed neighbors taking their evening strolls and asked each one about a fluffy little black dog on the loose.

I returned home because I remembered that I didn’t have my phone, and that is the number listed on his collar and on his microchip info, and as I was loading Jr back into the wagon, The Hub walked up with Potter safely on his leash.

He had wiggled his way into the next door neighbor’s back yard, where The Mr. found him sniffing around where some bunnies had been. Why he didn’t come when I called him, I don’t know.

Cue the crazy relief crying break down from Mommy. Followed by an entire night of me having at least one hand or foot physically touching his puff, so I knew exactly where he was.

Now Potter is not a runner by any means. He isn’t one to go bolting off if he steps outside the garage or anything, which is why I was so mortified when I looked around and I couldn’t see him anywhere.

I could see the relief on The Mr’s face too, but of course I got a giant eye roll for my blubbering display.

Don’t care.

Quite simply, I can’t do without my baby dog. I had to seriously fight the urge to jam his puff into an Ergo and wear him to the office today, where, much to my dismay, I had to come for an actual physical meeting (which happens once in a blue moon, so of course it would be today.)

What can we take from this tale?

2 things:

Maybe that crazy person carrying her little dog around in inappropriate places has a better reason then we imagine.

When your wife says the dog is outside, the dog is outside. When your wife says anything, that anything is right. You are welcome.

Reluctantly Suburban Eats

Recipes: Eat, Drink, and be Keri

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